


Devil's Backbone

by fabula_prima



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Western, American Civil War, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-26 22:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20750096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: The year is 1875. It’s been 13 years since Alfie Solomons went AWOL from the Union forces and ambled his way to a silver mining camp in Colorado. Now well-established, he runs The Bakery–part saloon, part brothel, mostly end-of-the-road haven to the weary and downtrodden. But now the Shelby brothers from the ranch out yonder are whispering about making something of the town, and an old criminal friend has arrived with a goddamn US Marshal on his tail. A US Marshal with a face like a fucking memory.Some characters are borrowed directly from the Peaky Blinders universe, others are characters of my own imagining to fill things out. We’re only just barely hanging on to the canon here, folks.





	1. Hear the Wind Blow

Out in the world, when a bedraggled soul looked for quiet moments of contemplation, they sought the midnight hour, when everyone had gone to sleep. But midnight was right when The Bakery came alive. So for mulling over his thoughts, Alfie had to wait til dawn.

And on that morning, like most mornings, he moseyed downstairs, cup of coffee in hand, from his personal quarters to the saloon below. Johnny Mud lay sprawled across a table-top with a puddle of drool collecting against his face, and Hattie was knelt at the hearth, starting a fire. But otherwise, the room was still and silent. His feet thudded heavy against the floorboards–he’d never been a light step. And yet it wasn’t enough to rouse the drunkard.

“Hattie, shake him the fuck up, will you?”

Without turning away from her task, the young woman scoffed. “You don’t pay me near enough to touch that varmint.”

Johnny Mud was a harmless drunkard. But he was a sad kind of drunk; the sort that killed a mood. He learned, after being booed and harangued many a night, that he was not a primetime bargoer. No, he typically showed up at three or four in the morning, drank his fill of whiskey, and wept himself to sleep on one of Alfie’s tables. All in all, he was one of the least troublesome of Alfie’s regulars, but first thing in the morning, when the day still had the potential to be good, his ugly mug was the last fucking thing Alfie cared to see.

But like a blessing, Ollie strolled out of the storage room and, without instruction, hoisted Johnny up by the back of his collar and shoved him into one of the back rooms–the shitty one, with the bullet holes, where they stored busted furniture and broken mops. It had a lopsided bed, and often doubled as sleep-it-off quarters; theoretically for anyone, but these days, mostly for Johnny.

So when Hattie scrambled off to start breakfast, Alfie was left blessedly alone to plan out his day. He sipped slow at his coffee, careful to not dampen his moustache, and tapped a beringed knuckle against the bar in contemplation.

Something strange was drifting through the air: change, perhaps. No doubt the change of seasons, as autumn blew in like an unwelcome draft. But something else, too. Traffic seemed to be picking up through camp. It was inevitable, he supposed. Running from civilization was a fool’s errand, and though Alfie wasn’t above the occasional bit of foolishness, he knew what was coming. Manifest fucking destiny. A load of bullshit, in his opinion. The rich and powerful rotting of fucking greed from the inside out and spreading it like a sickness across the country.

Like it or not, it was on its way. So if he was going to preserve the little slice of peace he’d carved out for himself, he’d have to get ahead of the encroaching masses. Especially with these fucking Shelby boys sniffing around. Couldn’t even keep track of how many there were–three, maybe four, plus a sister and an aunt and a cousin and a whole flock of gypsy brethren. They’d been content for years, taking care of their horses and whatever Farmer John nonsense they kept busy with. But now one of them was enterprising. Prospecting. Not for gold or silver, but for a lot where he might build a little business. ‘Course, Alfie’d had the forethought, nearly a decade ago, to purchase up as much land in the camp as was reasonable with his savings. So anything that Shelby boy wanted to do would have to go through him. That ought to slow him down.

No, Shelby was future trouble. The present trouble was Sabini. The bastard strolled into town three days ago, looking for a place to lay low, and bodies were already collecting. He did this, every so often, when the heat was on him from robbing trains. Begging “please old friend, for the sake of our dear departed mothers.” And what was Alfie to say to a childhood friend? Especially one who paid him ten cents for every dollar of his spoils.

But this time, he had witnesses on his trail—a pair of goddamn vigilantes looking to make a name for themselves by bringing down the Darby Gang. And that managed to become Alfie’s trouble too.

“Right then, getting rid of the goddamn tenderfoots is gonna cost extra.”

“How much?”

Alfie thought on it a moment, rubbed idly at his beard. “Fifty percent.”

“Fifty fucking percent? Fuck me Solomons, I got men to pay.”

“Not my fucking problem. And that’s generous, ‘cause I’ve included the disposal fee.”

That was the end of the conversation. Sabini stormed off in the direction of The Bakery’s dusty basement, prepared to settle in for a week while the heat died down. The next day, Alfie sent Abe off to take care of the vigilantes before they made it into town. And as of late last night, Ollie had disposed of the bodies.

All was well-handled, the fire across the room was finally starting to spread its warmth, and Alfie would have a few hours of peace before the earliest patrons got thirsty and came waddling in.

He loved nothing so much in life as he loved The Bakery. Earned every cent he used to buy the land and the lumber. Built the place with his own two hands, and didn’t even mind that he tore them up in the process. It was a haven, for him and for the camp. And it was a fresh start after the War. He watched dust motes flit through a ray of early morning sunlight and still marveled at the calmness. All those years ago, ducking cannon balls and musket fire, he never could’ve conjured this life up for himself.

That’s why the idea of change irked him so. He’d be happy to live out the rest of his days serving drinks, looking after the women that worked for him, and supervising the sanity of the rowdy camp. He’d even tolerate Sabini’s antics if it meant preserving his refuge. But there was talk of annexation in the air, and now the Shelbys wanted to open a gambling den—change was whipping in with the breeze.

And so was Ollie. All but running in from the thoroughfare with a cloud of dust at his heels.

“It’s the fucking law,” he panted when he was close enough that a whisper would do. Alfie grimaced at the sight of sweat beading on Ollie’s forehead.

“What fucking law?”

“US Marshal, inquiring around camp.”

“Fucking Sabini,” he muttered. “Head down to the basement, make sure he keeps his goddamn mouth shut.”

Ollie nodded and scrambled to his orders, wringing his hands frantically. He was trustworthy, but easily spooked. One look at him and the Marshal’s suspicions would rouse. It was best to get him out of sight.

* * *

The Rocky Mountains always sent a thrill through her heart. She liked the freedom that being a Marshal gave her, but she liked the views even more. The endless stretch of Kansas hypnotized her, the Ozarks were like seeing a piece of home, abroad, and the mighty Mississippi was a sparkling thread through history, stitching her moment to a thousand moments before her. The Colorado Territory, though? _Particularly_ stunning. If it weren’t for the gun at her side, she might’ve forgotten she was on the job, such was the peace of the land. Being so small in the face of something so big was liberating, in its own kinda way–what did her worries matter when it was possible for land to touch the sky? And it was harsh, too, which made her respect it all the more.

It made her jealous as well, ‘cause hers was a life full of disrespect. The other Marshals went by their last name, maybe the state they called home. But she was, against her own wishes, “Lady Marshal”–a novelty item, back in Missouri and a joke to most of her fellow Marshals. Above all else, she was mocked as an unsuitable wife, liable to shoot any man that so much as made a pass at her. In most cases, they were right. She hadn’t met a man alive that didn’t underwhelm her more feminine sensibilities. Maybe that’s why she found them so easy to work with–predictable, shallow, and scared shitless of her. But still in charge, and determined to hold her back. So every ounce of respect she had, she’d fought for, tooth and nail. And she carried each and every nugget of it with her, wherever she roamed–like a downtrodden prospector, desperate for a break, clinging to the scraps he’d found.

But this job that took her into Colorado was going to be her great victory. Charles “Darby” Sabini was wanted in four states and two territories, mostly for robbing trains. And by some miracle, she’d convinced the Chief Marshal to give her the job of bringing him down. There were suspicions that Sabini had steady ties to a silver camp high in the Rockies. She was already headed in the town’s direction when another robbery cropped up along the way. No proof it was the Darby Gang this time, but she knew it was his doing.

“And I will be his _un_doing,” she whispered, partly to herself, partly to her horse. The Marshals might not take her seriously, but she dared any of them to find a faster shot west of the Mississippi. It was a skill that served her well–both a weapon and a tool, that could remove a threat and convince a town that she meant business.

She wondered what this camp would have in store for her. Most prospecting settlements were little better than tents around campfires, but Silverton had a reputation as a steady growing town, with a proper brothel, a little saloon, and even a newspaper.

It was still early when she arrived, the sun only just peeking out above the mountains. The thoroughfare could hardly be called bustling, but courteous faces turned to greet her as she walked her horse down it to a hitching post. Not smiles, by any stretch of the imagination, but open acknowledgements. Which was better than some places she’d been. When her horse was secure, she stopped the first reasonable looking man that walked by and introduced herself–a rugged gentleman, missing a few teeth. He winced a little at the word “Marshal,” as most frontiersmen did, but she carried on regardless.

“Y’all have a law man in town? A sheriff, perhaps?”

He shook his head and scratched the prickly grey patches of hair on his cheeks. “No ma’am, each of us takes care of himself.” She glanced at his worn trousers and dirt-stained shirt and couldn’t help but smile a bit. He meant it, when he said they took care of themselves, and she was charmed by that.

“Maybe you have a mayor? Anyone that knows the camp’s comings and goings?”

“You best talk to Solomons, then. If it passes through camp, he and his know about it.” He marched off without offering better directions, but a quick look down the road suggested that the best bet was toward a building labeled “The Bakery.” She saw a dark-haired man enter it, and figuring it open, started the dusty trek to its double doors.

They swung wide with a soft creak, and revealed a small, but jovial looking saloon, with a fireplace and a sofa and half a dozen tables with chairs. Upstairs, a pair of women whispered to one another over the railing, their faces painted with too much make-up, and their loose corsets dipped dangerously low. One of them waved down at her then glanced pointedly across the room to the center feature: a well-polished wooden bar, and a bearded man stood behind it. He watched her over the rim of his mug for a moment, glaring eyes boring holes into her forehead. Then he set the cup down carefully and preened at his mustache.

“You make a fine door, ma’am, but is there something I can help you with?”

She approached the bar with as much confidence as she could muster and opened the side of her jacket to reveal her gun–a show of transparency and a forewarning against any foolishness.

“U.S. Marshal. I’m looking for someone named ‘Solomons.’”

His eyes twitched for a fleeting moment before he offered his hand, lined with rings and a small black crown tattoo. “Alfie Solomons, owner and proprietor. What do the fucking U.S. Marshals want with me?”


	2. Jesus, He was a Handsome Man

He rode into camp in the pouring rain, rattle already well-formed in his chest. Small fires flickered under the cover of awnings along the thoroughfare. Surely the ferryman had been mistaken. This weren’t no kinda town, just a dozen or so prospectors bedding down under a bit of shelter.

But then he spotted lit windows at the end of the way and saw figures walk by silhouetted–women, with hair piled high, the occasional stumbling man. He patted Magpie affectionately on the neck and whispered at her to head forward. She was a good mount, a steady buckskin Morgan he’d stolen on his way out of Kentucky. He reasoned that a cavalry led by bigoted sons of bitches didn’t deserve such a fine horse anyway. Probably would’ve been smart to trade her out for a fresh mount along the way, but he was already attached to her funny little spirit. “Never meant to be on a battlefield, were you?” he’d mumbled to her as they rode out of Paducah. He could’ve sworn she’d shook her head, and that was the long and short of it–he was a horse thief.

So he took it slow through Missouri, through Kansas, and into Colorado territory. He’d heard tale of small gold rush camps where a man on the run might be able to disappear into the chaos. It seemed like a smart idea until he could save up enough to get across the Rockies. But the journey was long, made longer by keeping the same mount. And it had worn on his body. Sure, he could go slow; but he couldn’t stop. And he’d left the regiment before all of his injuries had healed, so if it weren’t for Magpie’s steady feet, he would’ve quite literally limped into town. He owed it to her to, not trading her in.

He spotted a covered hitching post near the building with lit windows, and secured his dear friend to it with a lazy scratch between her ears. He’d find her some food a bit later, but now that he stood on his own two feet, the task of moving seemed nigh impossible. The promise of a warm, dry room drew all of his exhaustion to the surface and he all but stumbled across the threshold of what appeared to be a brothel. He pulled his soaked hat from atop his head and coughed as he glanced around. A mustachioed gentleman in nothing but his shirttails sat draped across the lap of one woman while a second handed him a cordial of something thick and dark. Perfume wafted dense and heavy around his nostrils, ambergris and jasmine, and his eyes felt heavier by the second.

“Can I help you, sugar?”

He sucked in a breath in surprise at the sound and something knocked loose in his chest until he couldn’t help but choke out cough after raspy cough. Through watering eyes, he saw the source of the voice: an aging woman with dyed dark red hair and dark red lips to match, leaned against the back of a yellowing velvet chaise lounge.

She stood and outstretched one arm. “Good heavens, hun, you look half a step from death’s door.” Before he could respond, she sidled up next to him with a hand on his back, guiding him toward a sofa. He sat down and closed his eyes until the world stopped spinning.

“You in some kinda trouble?”

The air he blew through his nose was meant to serve as a laugh, but it only made him dizzier. “I need a room.”

“Hun, this ain’t an inn.”

He pointed upstairs. “Them look like rooms.”

“Yes, well, they’re occupied by other business.”

He stared at her for a moment, now sure that she was the madam. Likely one of the girls back in the day, but smart enough to know that hers was a career with a time limit. And smarter, still, to know that she could run things. She was a lovely woman, and not merely for her age. But above all else, something in her face looked like a sorely needed bit refuge.

“I’m in no state for that sort of business, ma’am.”

“I should say not,” she whispered, turning the right side of his face toward her with red lacquered nails at his chin. “My god, you are a pretty thing, though. If it weren’t for this gash. Who you running from, sugar?”

_Bigots_. _The Union Army_. _Arrest_. “Best if you don’t know,” he mumbled. “But I ain’t no danger, yeah, I promise you that.”

She petted his uninjured cheek with the back of her hand and stood up. “You a brandy man, or a scotch man?”

“Don’t partake in spirits.”

She chuckled and proceeded to the far wall where a liquor cart glinted in the light of the fireplace. “Hun, your bones need warming. And if you ain’t gonna hire one of my girls, you best sip something. Brandy or scotch?”

Scotch seemed likelier to kill whatever ailed his chest, so he made his request and accepted the glass without much fuss. She watched him in a mothering way, hovering with her arms folded across her chest until he’d swallowed half the liquor. “Alright then. You sit tight, I’ll fix you up a room.”

“I got no money,” he admitted, trying to subdue a hiccough.

“Oh hush now, I ain’t sending you back out in that storm just ‘cause you can’t pay.”

He drained the last bit of scotch from the glass and pressed a hand to his chest like his fingers might be able to feel the fiery tendriled whiskey shooting through his veins. “That’s mighty kind of you, ma’am.”

“The name’s Dora, sugar, and it’s no trouble.” She waited for a moment before she turned to her task, no doubt hoping he’d offer his own name up. But he only smiled and nodded, and that was clear enough for her liking. He watched her disappear behind a beaded curtain, then reassessed his surroundings. The place existed in shades of pink and yellow, probably red and gold once upon a time, but faded now. The seats, be they sofas or chairs, were all puffed velvet, decadent long ago, but pressed flat with the weight of years and lonely bones.

Only one client remained in the main parlor–the same half-dressed dandy–but he was already far drunker than he’d been when Alfie had arrived, stumbling between the two women that had been tending to him.

The taller of the pair cooed convincingly at him. “Shall we go up to a room, sir?”

He scoffed and tripped over his still-socked feet. “You trying to hide me away?”

“‘Course not. Just thought you’d be more comfortable–”

“I’m perfectly _comfortable_ here,” he yelled, leaning closer than necessary into the shorter woman’s face. A shot of adrenaline lifted Alfie’s hackles, but he kept his eyes set on his own two feet.

Until the yelling changed directions.

“You worried this simpleton’s gonna watch without payin up?”

Alfie looked up and across the room at the red-faced drunk and frowned, but otherwise dismissed him. He didn’t have it in him to fight.

“You got somethin to say to me, Miss Nancy?”

“Come on now, sweet thing,” one of the women said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t pay that boy any mind.”

A mistake.

He turned and grabbed the soft flesh under her chin in the span between his thumb and forefinger, like a claw at her neck. “I ain’t payin you to feel sorry for me.”

Alfie could hear her whine through the man’s grip–he wasn’t choking her outright, not yet anyway, but he meant to frighten her. And frightened, she was. Alfie could see it in her eyes, wide and starting to water. The wooziness left him and he marched over to the man, fist clenched. One solid hit to the nose released his grip from the woman’s throat, and he curled around Alfie’s feet. He nodded at her as she ran shaky fingers beneath her chin.

“I’ll pick him back up, if you’d like a turn.”

As she shook her head, the other woman tucked her under her arm and ushered her upstairs. He idly wondered if the two were real friends or more like soldiers next to one another in the trenches. The wooziness slipped back over him as he tried to focus his eyes on the patterend wallpaper, and he slumped against the wall.

* * *

He woke up in a bed for the first time in months. Not a thin cot, but a proper bed with a mattress and a frame and a coverlet. Someone had stripped him down to his union suit, and if the tightness in his face were any indication, they’d sewn up his cut, too. It took him a minute to get his feet steady, and an even longer minute to redress. Felt like he’d been dead to the world for weeks. Still weren’t enough sleep, though.

The room was small and warm, but plainer than the receiving room had been. No velvet or silks, just wood plank walls and a tin washbasin. The mirror above it was scratched and grimy, but he could see the purple smear of the wound on his cheek and the hollowness of his face. The pitcher of water by his hand looked clean enough, so he used its cool contents to wake himself up better. It didn’t work.

Beyond his door, he could hear women waking. Quiet chatter and slippers against the smooth floor. He peeked his head out the door and down the hallway, and saw the beaded curtain he’d watched Dora disappear behind last night. He wondered if he’d made it into this room under his own efforts, or if one of these poor women had the task of hauling his ass to the bed. All he recalled was knockin some drunkard in the nose. He winced at the memory.

An apology was in order. He made his way into the front parlor with an eye out for the madam who’d done him a great favor. Sure enough, she sat on the arm of the largest chair, saucer in one hand, cup of tea in the other.

“Mornin, sugar. Glad to see you’re still with us.” Her hair was down in loose curls and she’d yet to apply any makeup. There was something altogether more approachable about her like this; made it hard to believe that she was mother to half a dozen soiled doves.

“I thank you for tending to me. And my apologies for causing a scene last night.”

Her eyebrow quirked up. “Last night? Why, hun, you were still tuckered out, snorin like a baby.”

“How long was I asleep?”

She looked up to the ceiling like she was focused on counting. “Well, you rode in late Tuesday night, and this is Thursday morn.” He frowned and maybe she sensed his embarrassment, ‘cause she approached him and put a hand on his forearm. “Now don’t you fret, we’re just relieved you’re back on your feet. Aren’t we girls?”

A few of the ladies lay tossed about on the furniture, nibbling at whatever served as their breakfast, and they all nodded and hummed in agreement.

“And if you was talkin ‘bout hittin that man in the face, it’s the least of what he deserved. Some city slicker who rode into town, mean as a snake. But we tolerate all tempers, so long as they don’t take it out on the girls. Seems he couldn’t handle himself once he’d been at the bottle. Minny thanks you for comin to her rescue.”

The plump woman from two nights ago smiled his way and he felt at least a little relieved. He weren’t used to a room full of women, after so many years surrounded by nothing but men. It was a pleasant enough change of pace, if not a little unsettling. Like being in a fishbowl.

Then he remembered “Magpie. My horse, I hitched her up–”

“Well taken care of, sugar. Had little William tend to her while you was convalescing. Speakin of, I hope you don’t mind I had Doc Powers take a look atcha. Stitched up your gash as best he could, and thinks you came down with a touch of pneumonia. Says you ought to recover alright, you rode into town just in time to catch it. I tell you what, you had a fever from hell. Gave us all a good scare.”

That was that, then. He’d been seen and tended to, but judging by his ride into camp, this little spot wasn’t enough cover to keep hidden away. Maybe he could make his way over the Rockies, to the ocean. He always did love the sea. He looked around the room, feeling more out of place than ever. “I thank you for your care, Miss Dora. I best be heading out, yeah?”

Her face turned hard in an instant. “You’ll do no such thing, you’re under doctor’s orders to stay abed.”

“I appreciate your help, ma’am, but I really ought to get going.”

She glanced briefly around the room before sidling up close to him, held his arm as she whispered. “You don’t have to tell me what you’re runnin from. Just know mum’s the word ‘round here. You told me you weren’t a dangerous man and I believe you. So you’ll stay here a bit until that rattle in your chest is gone at least. And in the meantime, if Johnny Law shows up, ain’t a soul ‘round here seen you.”

He grumbled under his breath, so she kept at it.

“I can offer room and board if you work for me.”

His brow dropped heavy and he glared at her. “Right, now I ain’t judgin your line of business, but I ain’t a prostitute.”

She barked out a laugh so loud that it shocked him back half a step. “First of all sugar, bein a soldier? Well, that’s just a different sorta whorin yourself out. Secondly, while I have no doubt you’d fetch me a pretty penny, my meaning was protection.”

His voice dropped to a grumbled whisper. “How’d you know I was a soldier?”

“Every man your age that’s able to walk’s been in a battle or two. And you had the look of a man runnin from death.” She walked him over to a cart laden with tea supplies and refilled her cup. “Look, camp’s fixin to grow, what with whispers of a silver vein nearby, bigger’n any gold one. That means more business, and more business means more trouble. Clearly you got principles, standin up for Minny like you did. And you knocked a man out while fightin off pneumonia, so I say you’re plenty strong for it.”

“Yeah, well, he was drunk.”

She smirked. “Most are.”

Putting down roots in a prospecting camp wasn’t exactly his idea of safe and sound. He’d still rather have the full stretch of the Rockies between himself and the Union Army. But if it were true about the silver, it weren’t such a bad idea to get in early. And he supposed he could leave at any time. He scraped at his three or four days’ worth of beard and sighed.

“Room, board…and ten bucks a night.”

She held her hand out and suppressed a smile as he shook it. “I’d’ve offered you fifteen.”


End file.
